


My Love, She Keeps Me Warm

by JustAGirl24



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Scarf Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 23:34:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11931684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAGirl24/pseuds/JustAGirl24
Summary: Brienne knits ugly, lumpy scarves for all her friends.Jaime just wants one, too.





	My Love, She Keeps Me Warm

Jaime doesn’t know how long he’s been at this little gathering of Margaery’s friends, but long enough to grow bored. He waits in an oversized chair, big enough for two to squeeze into.

The door opens with a bang, blustery winter winds following Brienne as she steps into Margaery’s house. Her cheeks are splotchy red, her short blond hair a windblown bird’s nest. Jaime eyes the overly long scarf around her neck, stripes of sapphire blue and rose pink. It is ugly and lumpy, yet somehow charming. _Just like its owner,_ he muses. He feels his breath catch when her eyes meet his, a smile crossing the broad, homely planes of her face.

Brienne hangs her coat on a nearby hook but leaves the scarf, then bends down to hug Margaery and Sansa, who are twittering around her excitedly. She meets his gaze, rolling her eyes good naturedly.

Finally, Margaery shoves a wine glass in Brienne’s hand and she’s free, walking over and settling on the edge of his chair. Jaime grins, tugging the ends of her scarf until she’s wedged into the chair next to him, pressed together from shoulder to hip to thigh. He pointedly ignores Sansa and Margaery’s eager stares.

“So,” Jaime murmurs, fiddling with the ends of her scarf, “when are you making one of these for me?”

Brienne sets her wine on a nearby coffee table and turns to him, eyes narrowed and full lips pursed. It’s a question he’s asked at least a dozen times before. “So you can make fun of my knitting?” she replies in mock annoyance. “Never.”

He pouts theatrically, handless arm covering his heart. “I’m wounded, wench.”

She rolls her eyes. “You wear ridiculously expensive clothing and you want a poorly knitted scarf to go with it,” she says disbelievingly.

“You made one for Marg. Sansa. Pod. That weird maintenance man with the awful topknot at your work,” Jaime argues. “I’m your favorite, so I should have one, too.”

Long fingers cover Brienne’s mouth as she giggles, surprisingly girlish. Her blue eyes glow with amusement. “My favorite? How old are you again?”

Jaime harrumphs. “I suppose I’ll have to make one for myself, then.” He pauses. “Oh, that’s right, I can’t.” He looks mournfully from his stump to her face, batting his eyelashes.

Brienne rolls her eyes, heaving a longsuffering sigh he’s heard many times over the years. He fights a grin, knowing he’s about to get his way.

“Fine,” she grumbles, and Jaime can’t help letting his smile escape. “I’ll make you an ugly scarf. I hope you’re happy.”

“Oh, I am, wench,” he purrs, letting his grin turn suggestive. “So happy I could kiss you, as a matter of fact.”

Brienne flushes immediately, all the way to the tips of her ears, her eyes darting around.

“Maybe you should,” says a mischievous voice, and Jaime jumps at the same time as Brienne when he realizes Margaery is sitting in the sofa across from them. Sansa sits next to her, the two of them grinning with their chins in their hands.

Well. Jaime’s hardly surprised, these two have been making noises about him and Brienne for ages. Marg probably expects the usual—flushed cheeks and protesting noises from Brienne, a cool stare from Jaime. But he hates backing down from a challenge, and besides, he knows something they don’t. With a shrug, he turns back to Brienne. He smiles at the warning look in her narrowed eyes and twines his fingers in the ends of her scarf, pulling her lips to his.

This is still new, the feel of her lips against his a recent, and pleasurable, discovery. Jaime finds himself lost in the pressure of her generous lips against his, her warm breath as she exhales against his cheek, the glance of her tongue against his own. He only dimly registers the startled gasps and excited squeals from her two best friends.

Jaime finally breaks the kiss, trying not to feel smug at the slightly dazed look in Brienne’s eyes, before casting a triumphant look at Sansa and Margaery.

_“Jaime,”_ Brienne hisses, and he has a moment to feel a little bad for his rash action—she’d wanted to keep things between them quiet for a little bit, away from the prying eyes of her friends—but then she’s swept away in a seeming whirlwind of excited chatter and designer perfume.

He’s wondering how much longer he and Brienne need to stay to be polite when all of a sudden, she’s looming over him, a murderous look on her face.

“You are taking me home. Now,” Brienne growls.

Jaime can’t help thinking she looks adorably flustered and raises his eyebrows suggestively. “As my lady commands,” he says with a flourish, Brienne rolling her eyes, and they’re shrugging into their coats and saying their goodbyes while Margaery is making threats of literally dragging Brienne to brunch that Sunday for fear that she will not show.

They make it outside, finally, after Brienne promises several times to be at brunch upon pain of death. The door closes behind them, and they are left standing on the steps to Margaery’s brownstone in a warm, golden circle of light. Flakes of snow catch in Brienne’s hair, and Jaime can’t help grinning besottedly as she glowers at him. He is so in love with this woman, it’s ridiculous.

“You couldn’t wait two weeks?” she asks, then groans. “Marg is going to have _so_ many questions at brunch.” Brienne pokes him in the chest— _ow!_ —then stalks over to the passenger side of his SUV.

Jaime swallows his laughter, trailing after her. He starts the engine, signaling before pulling out into the street, and they drive for a bit in silence. He wishes he had two hands so he could put one on her knee while he drives.

“So…questions?” Jaime prods her. He really ought to know better than to get her ire up, but he can’t help himself.

“Yes,” Brienne scowls. _“Questions.”_ She looks at him meaningfully.

He can’t help grinning, knowing exactly what she means. “Like…sex questions?”

Her flush is instantaneous, and the look she gives him is positively withering. “Have you met Marg? _Of course_ sex questions,” she groans.

“Feel free to tell her I’m the god of sex,” Jaime suggests as he pulls into her driveway and parks.

“The god of _asses,”_ Brienne hisses.

Jaime preens. “I do have the ass of a god,” he agrees, laughing as she splutters. “I could come in and show you, if you’re not too mad?” he asks, biting into a smile. “Just in case you’ve forgotten,” he adds.

Brienne looks at him, eyes narrowed. “Fine,” she grumbles, getting out of the car. “I have something for you anyway.”

Jaime can’t help but feel his interest piqued and quickly follows. He’s hanging up his coat and shaking snow from his hair when Brienne roughly thrusts a brown paper bag in his arms. She’s biting into her lip and cracking her knuckles nervously. Jaime cradles the bag in his handless arm and reaches inside, fingers closing around soft wool.

The scarf Brienne has made him is a rich red, the only beautiful thing about it. It’s as ugly and lumpy as the other scarves she’s made, and Jaime loops it around his neck two, three times. She’s put little bobbles on the ends, and they dangle halfway down his thighs. He is fascinated, picking up one of the bobbles to wave it at her, beaming with pleasure.

“You like it?”

She’s still gnawing on her lower lip, and Jaime hears the worry in her voice. He thinks about telling her it’s the first time someone has taken the time to make a gift for him, instead of simply buying the most expensive thing they could find. In a family so wealthy that money has ceased to mean anything, something on which she spent so much of her time is the most precious thing she could give him.

“Wench,” he says sincerely, “it’s the best gift anyone’s ever given me.”

Brienne smiles and rolls her eyes, grabbing the ends of his scarf to pull him close and kiss him. “I see why you like mine so much now,” she murmurs against his lips when they finally part.

“I have very discerning taste,” he agrees, and pulls her close for another kiss.


End file.
